


blue dress

by theplatonicnonyeah



Series: The World We Live In and Life In General [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dominance, M/M, Masochism, Sadism, Sexual Content, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/263051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When boredom took over something new had to be invented to alleviate the ennui. This was a game they had both agreed on. There were unspoken rules only they understood, but with one ransom: John’s life.</p><p>In collaboration with <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto">belovedmuerto</a> I am writing a collection of Sherlock fanfiction using songs by British group Depeche Mode as inspiration. This one takes its starting point from the song Blue Dress of the Violator album. Although a rather unusual love song it is nowhere near as creepy as this story ended up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	blue dress

John was asleep upstairs. It was almost 2.30 am.

Sherlock opened the wardrobe and let his fingers run over the clothes on their hangers, stopping at the last but one, pulling out a white clothing bag. He carefully laid it out on the bed and stood there for a while, hesitating. Then he unzipped the bag to reveal a blue silk dress.

The dress had arrived earlier that day, with a card attached. As Sherlock opened it a razor blade fell out onto the floor. On the card was one word: Shave.

So he did.

He spent half an hour in the shower carefully shaving his legs, then his chest and finally some of his pubic hair, although there wasn’t really much to begin with. He watched the dark hairs swirl down the shower drain. They would probably clog up the plumbing eventually and he wasn’t quite sure how he would explain that to John, should he ever find out. But it was really rather unlikely that John would be investigating the shower drain that carefully or even try his hands at cleaning it any time in the near future.

The rest of the day was spent waiting. Waiting for John to return home from the clinic. Waiting for dinner to arrive. Eating dutifully but without appetite, because he had no case to blame for his disinterest. Then the endless waiting for night time. Waiting for John’s eyes to droop as he flicked mindlessly through TV channels. Waiting for him to announce it was time for bed. And after that, waiting for John to fall asleep, for the house to fall quiet. Waiting for now.

Sherlock began to undress, folding each item of clothing into a neat pile beside the dress on the bed. He stopped to look at his own reflection in the full length mirror on the inside of the cupboard door. If he pulled his cock backwards and hid it between his legs, he could pass for an adolescent, rather flat-chested girl. There had been times when he had tried the disguise with some success.

Taking hold of the hanger again, he slid the dress off and unzipped it. Stepping into it, he pulled the straps up over his shoulders, and reached backwards to zip it up, enclosing his body in the dress. Silky fabric ran fluidly over his angular hipbones. The dress did not quite reach his ankles.

A box had also accompanied the clothing bag. He pulled it out from underneath the bed, opening it to find a matching pair of high heels. Sitting down on the bed, he slid his feet into them. There was a feeling in his chest he could not place, something heavy. But when he counted his heartbeats he found that his pulse was normal and his breathing unrestrained.

The flat was silent. No thoughts went through his head. John was still asleep upstairs.

Eventually, he stood up again. The shoes added to his already impressive height, but they also gave him a certain grace. He knew they would make it impossible to run, effectively rendering him useless. The shoes restricted his movements in a way that was both infuriating and arousing.

At 3.00 am he stepped out onto the pavement outside 221B Baker Street, wrapping his coat tightly around himself. The street was almost empty except for an anonymous-looking car waiting at the corner. As he walked towards it, the right-hand backdoor opened with a click. He slid inside and fell back onto the leather seat. Dark windows obscured him from the outside world or perhaps the outside world from him, as the car began moving through the streets.

Sherlock tried to memorize each turn of the drive, but the car seemed to be driving erratically on purpose, making unexpected u-turns and slowing down to confuse him. After a while he just gave up and let his mind wander, studying the interior of the car.

Finally the car came to a halt and the door opened again to let him out. The street looked familiar and yet like any other well-to-do London area. Harringay, he thought. The houses in front of him all stared back with dark windows, blind to the night. All but one, with a porch light above a blue door. He approached it slowly, mindful of his steps in the high heels, grabbing a fistful of dress fabric to hold up the long skirt.

Once inside he closed the door and remained standing in the darkened hallway, trying to accustom himself to the lack of light. There was a faint smell of...of perfume? Something sweet and musky. It reminded him of Mummy. He shuddered, mostly from the chilly draft following him inside the house.

A new door opened at the farthest end of the hallway, light casting a long trail across the floor. The thought of just leaving occurred to him. It would be the turning point, the classical Greek peripety, from where everything rushed towards its inevitable end. But instead, he moved forward, stepping over the threshold.

The room was dimly lit by two old-fashioned floor lamps, tassels hanging from the lamp shades. There were no windows. If you build a separate box inside a room you can make it sound-proof, Sherlock thought.

At the other end of the room a man was sitting in an armchair. Across his knee lay a riding crop.

\- You’re here, the man said in his tell-tale Irish lilt and cocked his head to one side.  
\- Yes, Sherlock replied.

He scanned the room, but the other man laughed dryly and said:  
\- Don’t worry, there are no cameras or microphones. Just you. And me.  
Sherlock met his eyes again as Jim Moriarty continued:  
\- If you want, you could kill me right now. But I have a sneaky suspicion you don’t want to do that. Just yet. Also...we have a deal, don’t we?  
\- Yes, Sherlock said.  
\- Good.

Jim was wearing a suit. Even from a distance Sherlock could recognize the fine tailoring of a bespoke garment. The dark grey fabric clung to the Irishman’s body, revealing just enough of his slender build. A wry smile cut across the man’s face as he stood up.

\- Take off your coat. I want to see the dress.  
Sherlock let the coat drop to the floor, where it pooled around his feet.

Jim gestured to a table standing by the wall to his right. Its top was covered in leather. The table legs had been screwed to the floor. Sherlock understood, but didn’t move. Despite standing a good head taller than the other man he felt defenceless. The shoes, though not an unfamiliar thing to him, had him off-balance. He swayed unsteadily; perhaps there was something toxic in that perfume? Then somehow his body took action and he was moving in the direction Jim had pointed.  
\- Bend over. Place your hands on the table and spread your legs.

Sherlock did as he was told. It caught him so off-guard, the spell was almost broken and he nearly began laughing. But as he felt the cool leather against his chin, he knew that the other man understood something about him that no-one else was ever allowed to know.

When boredom took over something new had to be invented to alleviate the ennui. This was a game they had both agreed on. There were unspoken rules only they understood, but with one ransom: John’s life.

For a little while nothing happened. Sherlock could sense Jim standing quite close behind him, but without touching him. Maybe he too was hesitating, unsure what the next step should be? Or maybe he was waiting for a sign? Sherlock stirred, began moving a hand, when he felt something tickling his ankle.

It took him a few seconds to identify the feeling, then he realised it was the soft leather popper at the end of the riding crop. Jim was using it to hitch up the silky skirt, up over Sherlock’s hips, revealing his naked behind.

He could hear a distinct exhale from the other man as his pale skin was exposed. Sherlock’s balls tightened as his cock began twitching in anticipation all on its own accord. The riding crop travelled up and down on the inside of his thighs, stopping momentarily at his balls, teasing them. He gasped as the leather touched his growing erection.

\- I knew you’d like this, Jim said as he moved the riding crop, coating it with Sherlock’s pre-come.  
\- We should do this more often, he continued.  
Sherlock inhaled sharply as the riding crop came down on his right butt cheek.  
\- Oh, wait! Maybe we should have a ‘safe word’?  
Jim sounded cheerful.  
\- Let’s see, what could it be? How about...”John”? No, perhaps not John. You’ll be shouting his name soon enough anyway. Because let’s face it, you’d rather it was him doing this to you right now, wouldn’t you?  
Sherlock swallowed hard as the riding crop hit him again.  
\- Say it! Say his name!  
\- J-john, Sherlock bit out as he felt the sting again, this time with a little more force.  
\- Good! Again.  
\- John!  
A taste of metal in Sherlock’s mouth.  
\- I’m glad. I’m glad we agreed to this little _rendez-vous_. It gives me so much pleasure – another lash – to see you so compliant.

The last word was underlined by yet another lash over Sherlock’s reddening flesh.

There was a pause.

They were both panting, as if in the throes of some joint ecstasy, even though the only thing that connected them physically was the riding crop.  
\- Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you. Not much.

Sherlock could hear the sound of the whip whistling through the air behind him and he braced himself for the inevitable stinging pain again, but instead the riding crop landed just beside his left hand on the table with a fat whopping sound. He must have jumped involuntarily, because he heard Jim laugh out loud.

He wanted to turn his head, to see what was going on, because he could hear Jim moving away from him. Just then there was a low popping sound and Jim was behind him again. Then the feeling of something slick and cold trickling down the crack of his arse and soon a hard, round shape began sliding up and down, circling his sphincter: it was the handle of the riding crop.  
\- Relax, the Irishman whispered. You’ve done this before. I know you like it.

Sherlock tried to regain control of himself, but ever fibre of his understimulated body craved the attention it was suddenly getting. His breathing was ragged and sweat was breaking in his palms, making his hands stick to the leather surface.

Jim began applying more pressure and Sherlock found himself narrowing his whole being into one single spot of intensely burning pain and pleasure. Yes, there was pleasure, but he wanted to fight it. He wanted not to want it. This was not how he had imagined it. He should be the one in control, making someone else beg for mercy and plead a mad release from their lowly lust.

Finally, the handle slid inside, stopped and stayed there completely still. He desperately wanted to touch himself, to counteract the intense feeling of being filled up by something so unyielding. But his hands would not move. Then the sound of a zipper: Jim letting his own cock out.

\- Move, the voice commanded. Fuck it, fuck the riding crop.  
And he began to move, feeling the handle push against his prostate with every thrust.

The world was a dark taste in his mouth. Images flashed before his eyes as his brain tried to compute the onslaught of information. Sounds and smells crowded in on him. At one point he thought he would throw up. Then his body began shaking. He heard noises like animals in heat, realising seconds later that they were coming from himself. All the while, one lonely word blazed a trail through the chaos: John.

John.

Soon he became aware that Jim was losing his self-control, taking hard, shallow breaths behind his back. It would not be long now.

With a strained groan the other man came, spraying Sherlock’s left thigh with warm liquid. And finally, Sherlock’s hands could no longer restrain themselves. It took less than three strokes for him to find release, his body shaking uncontrollably from the built-up tension.

Abruptly, the riding crop was removed and dropped to the floor.

Silence.

Then a hand on his hip, tentative fingers cupping his left hipbone. Sherlock stilled, wondering if this was perhaps the time to speak. But his mouth was dry and no sound emerged from the man behind him either. He felt a slight tug of the skirt fabric as Jim wiped himself clean and let the dress fall back down over Sherlock’s legs. Footsteps leading away from him, a door opening, then further away another door opening and closing again. He was alone in the house.

Suddenly his legs could no longer support him and he slid to the floor in a shivering heap. The dress felt too tight. He couldn’t breathe, he needed air, he wanted to scream, he - but instead there were tears and he scratched at the floor with his finger nails, sobbing loudly.

He needed to get up again. He must go back home. He had to stop this nonsensical crying, turn it off and close everything inside. He crawled over to where his coat was still laying by the door. Kicking off the shoes, he stood up and wrapped himself in the coat once again. On shaky legs he walked barefoot out of the house and back into the waiting car.

\---

221B Baker Street was the same: John in his bed, breathing in and out, in and out, lying on his side with his back to the door where Sherlock stood watching him.

Even with the coat still on Sherlock felt cold.

In his head, words drifted aimlessly around echoing against each other, but not forming any coherent thoughts. He considered stripping everything off to lie down naked beside John, curling into him for warmth. Only he wanted water first. To drink, to wash, to drown in. The feeling of a hand against his skin still burned, more than the lash marks. A single sentence formed: I am home.

Morning would come soon. Sherlock turned and walked downstairs to his own room. He lay down on top of the bed, still wearing the coat and underneath it the dress, where the wet patches had now dried up, leaving stiff blotches on the silky fabric. His mind was still, like a perfectly smooth ocean.

John was still asleep upstairs. It was almost 4.30 am.

**Author's Note:**

> Put it on / And don't say a word / Put it on / The one that I prefer / Put it on / And stand before my eyes / Put it on / Please don't question why

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [blue dress revisited](https://archiveofourown.org/works/446794) by [theplatonicnonyeah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theplatonicnonyeah/pseuds/theplatonicnonyeah)




End file.
